Beneath a pale, ghostly sky, the cemetery lies cloaked in a thick, creeping fog that drapes over crumbling tombstones like a shroud. Twisted trees arch overhead, their skeletal branches clawing at the air, while damp grass and moss overtake the gravestones with quiet persistence.
In the foreground, a lone black crow perches on a weathered marker, unflinching, as though guarding secrets long buried beneath the earth.
The air is still, yet heavy with the sense of presence of memories and voices just out of reach.
Time seems suspended here, in a realm where life has surrendered to decay, and the boundary between the living and the dead is perilously thin. It is a place not just of rest, but of lingering spirits and whispered warnings on the wind.